


The Invitation

by zaniness



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:14:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24649315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zaniness/pseuds/zaniness
Summary: He’s trouble. You can feel it.But you’ve always liked trouble.So instead of turning back to your friend and your drink, you smile flirtatiously over your shoulder at the dark-haired man sitting alone at a table in one of the bar’s dimly-lit corners. About ten minutes or so earlier, your friend had nudged you and gestured discreetly to the man who had apparently been staring at you for the better half of the last hour you and your friend had been sitting at the bar.He’s dressed well enough—a dark suit and a rich green scarf. Almost, you think, too well dressed for this place. Your fingers itch to tangle themselves in his hair. Not only to tangle, a wanton part of you whispers, but to pull and yank. He smirks at you and then raises an eyebrow—an invitation.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Kudos: 37





	The Invitation

He’s trouble. You can feel it.

But you’ve always liked trouble.

So instead of turning back to your friend and your drink, you smile flirtatiously over your shoulder at the dark-haired man sitting alone at a table in one of the bar’s dimly-lit corners. About ten minutes or so earlier, your friend had nudged you and gestured discreetly to the man who had apparently been staring at you for the better half of the last hour you and your friend had been sitting at the bar.

He’s dressed well enough—a dark suit and a rich green scarf. Almost, you think, too well dressed for this place. Your fingers itch to tangle themselves in his hair. Not only to tangle, a wanton part of you whispers, but to pull and yank. He smirks at you and then raises an eyebrow—an invitation.

One you’re all too glad to accept.

He pushes back from the table and stands, gesturing with his head toward the pub’s front door. He exits the pub, moving casually, confidently through people. Through the pub’s front windows, you watch as he turns to the right—heading toward an alley between the pub and the building next door. You make eye contact through the window, that damned smirk still on his face, and it’s like you’ve been struck by lightning.

He hasn’t even touched you and you can feel heat building between your legs.

You have a feeling he won’t wait long. If you don’t join him in the alley soon, he will surely find another. And you can’t have that. So you toss back the rest of your drink and say something to your friend about needing some air as you slide from the barstool. You don’t think she believes you, but you don’t really care at this point. There’s an indescribable feeling of _want_ and _need_ that has begun to bloom inside you and you can’t deny it.

Not any longer.

You have seen the man before. For the last month or so, the two of you had been playing this game. He would sit in the same corner of the pub—alone, of course—with a barely-touched drink in front of him and watch you. Smirk at you. Raise an eyebrow and then head out into the alley. You had only followed him once before, but you had been determined to make him wait—to prolong the game—and he had been gone by the time you decided he had waited long enough.

So you know you can’t waste any time. Not if you finally want your needs satisfied for real. (After he had left before you could get to him, you decided he needed to be punished—so you didn’t go anywhere near the alley for the next few weeks. You also pulled out your smallest dresses and your highest heels. You weren’t—and aren’t—fucking around. But now you think you’ve both waited long enough.)

You hadn’t only been seeing him at the pub. Ever since that first night about a month ago, he had played the starring role in your fantasies. You hadn’t consciously thought of the man the first time you had slid your fingers into the wetness between your legs, but he had appeared—and kept appearing—until no other fantasy could wind you up like the fantasies where this stranger played the starring role.

Now it’s time to make fantasy a reality.

You slide your arms through the sleeves of your coat as you work your way through the bar. The cold air shocks your legs as you step out onto the street, and you reflexively pull your jacket tighter around you as you begin to make your way toward the alley, heels clicking on the pavement. Your heart beats in your throat, but you’ve come this far—there’s no going back now. You might like trouble, but you don’t usually make a habit of hooking up with strangers. But this man hardly feels like a stranger anymore. Besides, your body would never forgive you if you turned around now.

You round the corner into the alley. He’s leaning against the wall, one foot flat against it, hands in the pockets of his jacket. When he sees you, he moves into the centre of the alley, about a foot from you, and speaks. And it’s the smoothest, most seductive purr of a voice you’ve ever heard.

“So you decided to come,” he says and all you can do is nod.

In a movement so quick you can’t discern it until it’s already over, he’s got you pressed against the chilly brick of the pub, his skilled mouth on yours. His hands slide in to open your jacket, finding your waist and the small of your back as your hands wrap around his shoulders. His mouth is warm, hungry, demanding. A mouth that takes no prisoners. It takes and takes but doesn’t give. So you have to take, too.

He pulls back, but he’s still holding you tight. His eyes are bright and mischievous—with a smile to match.

He smooths his hands up your body to your breasts. Pinches your nipples, which have hardened into stiff peaks, through the thin fabric of your dress. Once he’s elicited a moan from you, he pulls the fabric of your dress aside and lowers his mouth to your breast. The cold air does nothing but make your nipples tighten even more. He circles your nipple before scraping his teeth along it lightly. He does the same to your other breast before kissing you again. 

“Let’s see how interested you are, shall we?”

One of his hands moves down your body, fingers dancing around the hem of your dress at the back of your thigh. His fingers skirt to your inner thigh and your legs part instinctively. Anticipation builds as his fingers travel closer and closer to your centre. He’s clearly happy to let you stew a little longer—he stops a few inches from the part of you that’s aching for his touch. He chuckles, dipping his head to kiss up the side of your neck. You tip your head back as far as the wall behind you will let you.

His mouth at your neck can’t distract you from the feeling of your dress being pushed up to your hips. He pushes the fabric of your panties over, exposing you to cool air. Goosebumps rise all over your body. He slides a long finger between your folds, feeling the wetness that’s been building there for what feels like the past month.

“ _Very_ interested,” he says, voice low at your ear. He sounds amused, and judging by the hardness pressed against your thigh, you’re not the only one _very_ interested in what’s going on. “Spread your legs.”

You do as you’re told and you’re rewarded when he slides not one but two fingers inside of you, thumb rolling your clit in circles as he pulses in and out.

“So wet for me,” he purrs.

_Fuck_ , you think. Your hands move from his shoulders to his hair, which is surprisingly soft, as one of your legs hooks around his waist. You tangle your fingers and give a yank as a moan escapes you. His fingers continue to move in and out in a frankly delicious rhythm as he rubs your clit with a pressure that is _just right_. You can feel the pressure building inside you, threatening to spill over.

Suddenly, he stops and removes his hand.

“Not yet, kitten,” he says, still smirking.

He kisses you again. He removes your hands from his hair, long fingers wrapping around your wrists to hold them above your head against the wall behind you. As he leans against you, pressing you against the wall, you can feel his hardness pressing against your centre and you can’t help but to try to grind against it. It really isn’t that effective—the pressure is too light and the angle is all wrong to really accomplish anything, but you let out a cry when he rolls his hips against you.

“Eager, are we?”

Before you can come up with a retort about how you wouldn’t be so eager if he’d finished the job earlier, he has slid himself inside you. The stretch is enough to drive you mad. He releases your wrists to grab hold of your ass, lifting you off the ground. You wrap your legs around his waist as your arms return to his shoulders, hands finding their way to his hair again. And then he starts to move.

As he thrusts in and out of you, you can’t help but pull on his hair again—but this time you pull so hard his head dips back, exposing his long, pale neck to the yellow glow of the street lights. At least the very small amount of light that has managed to find its way into the alley. You start kissing the base of his neck and work up to his jaw before finding his mouth again. You snag his bottom lip between your teeth, giving it a little bite.

You’re _so close_ to the edge. It builds and builds inside of you, spilling out through your mouth in sounds you’re not sure you’ve made for another man before and fingers that can’t seem to stop gripping and pulling and yanking and thighs that grip him closer. Your response is completely uncontrollable, and it doesn’t bother you in the slightest. There’s nothing truly different here—the mechanics of what is going on aren’t any different than what you’ve experienced before, but there’s something inside of you that tells you it _is_ different. Something runs through your veins that is so entirely different from what you’ve experienced that you know it’ll probably never get any better than this as you come, crying out and clawing at him.

He continues to thrust against already sensitive nerves until he finally comes too. You both stay locked in the moment, breathing together, his hands still gripping your ass as he’s still buried inside of you. After he sets you down, you try fix your clothing as elegantly as possible. Nothing about what just happened feels elegant in the slightest, and your legs feel a little shaky. Maybe heels hadn’t been such a good idea. He looks as put together as he did moments earlier in the pub, before all of this began.

He smirks at you before walking to the end of the alley. As you watch him go, it occurs to you that you should probably ask for his name—maybe a phone number—but by the time you get to the mouth of the alley, he’s gone. You look both ways, but there’s no doubt—it’s like he was never there. 


End file.
